When Darkness Comes
by Sarahbob
Summary: AU- World War II/French Resistance. Enjolras is captured by the Gestapo and sent to a prisoner camp in Germany. When he returns, he is no longer the same. His friends will do their very best to put him back together, but they must ask themselves if that is even possible when one is broken beyond their understanding.
1. Chapter 1

_(Hello! A slightly longer authors note from me before I start this story. For my Master's Thesis I am doing research about the debate surrounding the representation of the Holocaust in popular media. Writing fiction concerning this subject still is very much criticized. On the one hand people say the subject is too horrible to ever represent. Pretending to be able to do so is called barbaric. On the other hand, witnesses are dying and people want to spread Holocaust awareness. They believe representations are necessary to keep the memory alive. This story is __**not **__about the Holocaust per se (as in the massmurder on the European Jewry), but it is connected to it and I do try to touch the subject in a distant, sensitive way. I needed to say this beforehand, because I am not trying to trivialize the subject in any way._

_That being said, on to the story!)_

* * *

Eleven months, seven days and three hours. That's how long it has been since he last saw Enjolras. Since he last saw his best friend, the chief of their group of friends. Eleven months, seven days and half an hour. That's how long it has been since Courfeyrac came bursting through his door, in tears, to tell him their leader was captured by the Gestapo. He later learned that his friend was crammed into a cattle wagon with no less than a hundred other prisoners and transported to a war prisoner camp somewhere in Germany. Combeferre knows exactly how long it has been. He has been counting.

They were supposed to do an easy job that day. Of course, being part of an illegal, underground resistance group was never easy, but the job they were to do had been fully planned and it should have been safe. Enjolras, one of the commanders of resistance groups in Paris, along with Courfeyrac, Feuilly and Bahorel was supposed to carry secret luggage along with new planned escape routes for Allied soldiers to the other part of the city. Somehow – and Combeferre still didn't exactly know how – they found themselves in the scheduled café surrounded by German soldiers. Help from their side came the second the fighting started, but the Germans were quick to capture the leader and isolate him from his comrades. According to Courfeyrac, Enjolras was already gone by the time he and Bahorel had fought their way through the chaos.

Combeferre doesn't even know if Enjolras is alive. Terrible stories of life in the concentration camps have reached their ears. No one knows if they are really true - it is impossible to imagine that they are – but the news now comes from reliable sources which are hard to ignore. The news comes from liberation troops and returning witnesses. The news comes from photographs and film footage that secretly finds its way to the French Resistance. And with every little detail, Combeferre feels sicker to his stomach. With every little detail he feels his hope of Enjolras' return diminish.

After Enjolras got captured, his friend's continued in their fight against the Nazi regime and the collaborationist Vichy regime. They took part in guerilla warfare activities, they helped publish underground newspapers, they maintained networks that helped Allied soldiers trapped behind enemy lines. They played a significant role in facilitating the Allies' rapid advance through France after the invasion of Normandy and they celebrated the Liberation of Paris on August 25, 1944, two and a half months after Enjolras was taken. Combeferre fought and celebrated alongside of his friends, but he had lost most of his spirit. The freedom of France was always the highest goal, though somehow Combeferre had trouble seeing it since his best friend was gone.

Combeferre closes his eyes and lies back on his ragged couch. So many memories. So much blood and pain and death. He wonders how life will go on after this. Will everyone simply continue? Will they do anything in their power to guarantee a reconstruction of their wretched society? Will they remember what happened? Will there be help for those who lost everything? Will those who collaborated with the Germans be punished? Will life ever find happiness again? Combeferre sniffs and hugs the photo frame he was holding close to his chest. It contains a picture of himself and Enjolras, when they were still children, living in the countryside of Southern France. He loves that picture, though he can't remember it. He cannot recall a time where he was carefree. He cannot remember a time that wasn't dominated with war and destruction. He cannot remember this Enjolras. The innocent young boy, full of life and curiosity.

There is a soft knock on the door and for a second, Combeferre allows himself to dream that it is Enjolras standing behind it. For a second he dares to hope that his friend has finally returned to them. But when he lays his hand on the knob, he already knows that his dreams are false and his hope is futile.

"Hi, 'Ferre," Courfeyrac says quietly when Combeferre opens the door and steps aside to let him in. "I missed you at the meeting today, so I thought I'd come by and fill you in. If you're up for it, of course." Courfeyrac knows. He knows that Combeferre is spiraling down. He knows that his friend is hardly more than those ghosts of prisoners who return to the country. And he knows that each day that passes without news on Enjolras' whereabouts, weighs on Combeferre's heart like a concrete rock.

Combeferre just nods and goes into his tiny kitchen to make his friend some coffee. He wants to ask again. He wants to ask Courfeyrac if there is any news. He wants to know if they have found their leader under the terribly long lists of victims. He wants to know if he is still missing. He wants to be released of that painful, suffocating grip of not knowing anything. But he is afraid to ask. He fears that this time, the answer will be positive and he fears that he will lose his best and oldest friend for good.

"There's really not that much news, though," Courfeyrac admits regrettably. "It's difficult to get into contact with the government at the moment. They only talk to the commanders of the Resistance, so we thought that we'd let them solve it and focus our attention to the people returning to the city. It's hectic, 'Ferre… So many of them lost their homes, their families. We've opened shelters in some of our safe houses and we…"

"Is there any news on Enjolras?" Combeferre interrupts his friend suddenly. He immediately feels ashamed for not paying attention to Courfeyrac's story, but the question had been stuck in his mouth, just waiting to burst out. When he looks up and sees the tears in Courfeyracs eyes, his heart sinks and he wishes he hadn't asked.

"Yes…," Courfeyrac whispers in a shaky voice, wiping a tear away. He walks towards Combeferre and takes his friend's hand. "We have news… Though we still don't know where he is or what has happened to him. B-But… we have found records… A-And those records show that when he was captured, they sent him to a prison camp in Germany, to Neuengamme. But then six months later he was transferred to Bergen-Belsen, another camp, I believe it used to be a war prisoners camp too..." Courfeyrac swallows and closes his eyes for a second. "The camp was liberated nearly two months ago…"

_Bergen-Belsen. _Combeferre knows the name and it chills him to his very core. He feels like something has just hit him in the stomach and he has trouble breathing. Two months… That made sense, of course, since the war had ended two months ago, but still. If the camp was liberated two months ago, shouldn't the survivors have returned already? If Enjolras was there… If he was still alive… Shouldn't he be back in Paris by now? He bites his lip and nods. He tries to remain calm, but his world is crashing down hard and he doesn't know how to keep himself from being crushed by its weight. "H-Have… Courf… H-Have others already returned from there?"

His friend gives him an apologetic look and that is really all that Combeferre needs for an answer. He literally feels himself deflate as the last bit of hope he had flies away from him.

Courfeyrac leaves Combeferre's apartment a few hours later, urging him to keep in touch and to not lose faith. But Combeferre feels like a solid statue, deprived from all that makes him human. As if his very heart has turned into cold stone.

* * *

He doesn't see any of the Amis for more than a week. He doesn't visit them and he doesn't open his door when they come by. He only shifts a note under the door to tell them he is physically well and just needs some time alone. But he isn't well. Not by a long shot. Combeferre is falling apart and all he sees is death and horror and war.

He lies on his couch now, late in the afternoon, little more than a week and a half after Courfeyrac visited him, and he stares at the ceiling. His mind is blank. He has no thoughts. He blocks his memories. It's easier not to think. His eyes fall closed when he hears a faint knock on his front door. Combeferre feels guilty for letting his friends down like this, but he cannot help it. He doesn't know how to stop himself from spiraling down the way that he does. Another knock has him open his eyes again and he sighs. "I am fine, please go away," he calls out, not missing the fact that his voice cracks in the middle, betraying his words.

It is quiet outside the door and for a moment Combeferre hopes that whoever was there had decided to leave him alone. But then he hears it again and somehow it gets on his nerves. It's a soft knock, almost hesitant, and yet still very compelling. Combeferre frowns and calls out again, firmer this time.

And then he hears it. A voice so faint that it is easily missed. It's a mere breath of Combeferre's name and it sends shivers down his spine, because he knows that whoever he thinks he is hearing, isn't there. His mind is playing tricks on him.

"'Ferre, please open the door?"

A whole sentence this time and Combeferre is crying because this is just cruel. He wants it to stop. He doesn't want to hear that voice. Caught in some sort of desperate delusion, Combeferre lets himself fall off the couch and storms towards the door. He will not have anything or anyone denigrate the image of his best friend. He doesn't want to be fooled. He will not have it.

But tearing his front door open nearly sends Combeferre down to the ground. Because even though the person that stands in front of him in no way resembles the boy he has known since childhood, Combeferre is certain that he is seeing his best friend. He would recognize those piercing blue eyes anywhere, no matter how disheveled, malnourished or broken the rest of his body may be.

Combeferre stares and the person in front of him stares back. Then suddenly his arms are wrapped tightly around a far too small frame. He doesn't know who initiates the embrace, although he is fairly sure that it is Enjolras who falls against him, but he doesn't care. He doesn't care that he can feel and count every bone beneath Enjolras' skin. He doesn't care he cannot hide his face in the mop of golden curls that was always there but had now been cut away to soft blonde peaks of hair. He doesn't care that he starts crying and he doesn't care he is holding his friend for far longer than he would ever be comfortable with. All he knows at that moment is that he is finally able to wrap his arms around his best friend again. He knows how to do this. He knows how to be the comforter, the protector, the guide.

And Enjolras is silent and still in his grip. He doesn't cry, he doesn't cling and he doesn't break down. All he does is rest his head on Combeferre's shoulder, close his eyes and melt into the familiar and severely missed embrace.

"Don't ask me what happened," he whispers quietly, shakily, in his oldest and best friend's ear. "Don't ask me, for I will never be able to tell you. Nor do I want to."

Combeferre takes the words to heart and tightens his embrace by means of an answer. They stand there in the door opening for a long while. And when Combeferre finally pulls his friend inside and closes the door behind them, he knows who he is again. In a matter of seconds he returns to himself and he knows his purpose in life. Enjolras' return, no matter how broken, meant Combeferre's return.

* * *

_(I am not sure whether to continue this story or just leave it here, since it touches a sensitive subject and I don't know if I'm qualified enough to breach it. In any case, I would like to know what you think of this, so please review! It would mean a lot.) _


	2. Chapter 2

_(Thank you for the replies on this story, I've been going back and forth in deciding if I wanted to continue this and I decided to give it a try. A few reviewers have mentioned that it might be good to continue because it would shed light upon a period in our history that should not be forgotten. I agree with them and though I will never be able to grasp the extent and impact of that period, I do want to try and contribute. Also, today is the National Remembrance Day in the Netherlands and that was actually the decisive factor to update this chapter.)_

* * *

Combeferre wordlessly pushes a cup of steaming tea in Enjolras' hands. All the time that his best friend was missing, Combeferre could think of a million things he wanted to tell him. But now that Enjolras was back home, sitting on the couch and hugging his knees close to his chest, Combeferre couldn't think of a single thing. There was so much he wanted to ask, so much he wanted to tell. But Enjolras' distant, almost empty expression put Combeferre off guard. What was there to say? What was there to ask? Maybe silence was the best way to go for now. Indeed, Enjolras already told him that he didn't want Combeferre to ask what happened.

"Thanks," Enjolras mutters as he accepts the cup of tea. He offers Combeferre a small smile, but Combeferre knows him too well to know there's no real happiness behind it.

"You're welcome," Combeferre says just as softly, voice wavering a bit. He settles himself next to Enjolras on the couch and stares down at his own mug. Silence falls between the two friends and it's the first time in their lives that it doesn't feel comfortable. Combeferre feels disconnected from Enjolras, from the person he used to know through and through. The happiness he felt when he saw his friend standing in his door way makes place for painful desperation when he realizes Enjolras has gone through a terrible chapter in his life that Combeferre has missed and will never understand. It hurts, because Combeferre feels it's his job to make Enjolras feel safe and happy, but now he fears he will never be able to live up to that job.

He doesn't realize his hands are shaking until he loses his grip on the steaming cup of tea and sees it clatter to the ground. The sound is deafening, breaking the pressing silence. Combeferre feels Enjolras flinch next to him and that is all it takes to have him break down again. He hides his face in his hands and tries his best to suppress or at least muffle the sobs, but it is no use. And he feels terrible, because he is supposed to be strong. He is supposed to be strong for Enjolras.

It takes him a few moments to realize that the person next to him is trying to get his attention. When he looks up, Enjolras pulls him close and lets his hand rest on the back of Combeferre's head, drawing soft circles in his hair. Combeferre allows himself to melt into Enjolras' embrace and tries not to notice how profoundly his friend's collarbone is visible beneath his skin. Never in his life had Combeferre wished for his friend to stubbornly tell him he was fine when he obviously wasn't. But Enjolras doesn't say he's alright. He doesn't roll his eyes and he doesn't try to convince Combeferre that he is okay. Enjolras doesn't say anything for a while. When he does speak, the words send shivers down Combeferre's spine.

"Don't cry 'Ferre. Don't waste your tears on me. I do not deserve them."

And if anything, that makes Combeferre cry even harder because tears on Enjolras are never wasted and how can he not deserve them? Combeferre grips Enjolras' boney forearm and squeezes it tight.

"I'm alive," Enjolras whispers shakily more to himself than to his friend.

_No, you're not_, Combeferre can't help but think. _Not really. _Enjolras does not tell him to stop crying again. But he doesn't lose his hold on Combeferre either.

After ten minutes or so, Combeferre pulls back and rubs at his eyes, wiping the remaining tears away. Before he stands to clean up the mess he made, he places a quick kiss to Enjolras' forehead. He feels his friend's eyes watch his every move and when Combeferre walks into the tiny kitchen he doesn't miss the way Enjolras strains his neck a little to follow him. There was a time when it would have made him smile to know that Enjolras didn't want to be apart from him. Now it only broke his heart. He quickly drops the broken cup in the trash and hurries back towards the couch. Once again, he takes his place next to his friend, but this time he dares to take charge and he drapes an arm around Enjolras' small shoulders, pulling him against his side. Combeferre feels like he needs the contact himself, but if the way Enjolras' body relaxes against his is anything to go by, he is sure that his friend wants it just as much.

For a second everything feels normal again, but the following quietness is just as uncomfortable as it was before. This time, however, it is not Combeferre's mug that breaks the silence, but Enjolras' hesitant voice. Combeferre recognizes the tone of that voice. It is the tone of desperately wanting to know something, but at the same time being afraid of finding out. He has felt that way for eleven months.

"The others…?" It is all that Enjolras is capable of asking.

Combeferre rubs soothing circles across his friend's shoulders and presses another kiss to the side of his head. "They are alive," he says quietly. "Bahorel lost his left arm in a fight and Feuilly has trouble with his hearing after an explosion some months ago, but they are alive…"

Enjolras nods slowly and suddenly his eyes tear up. "Grantaire and Eponine?" he chokes out softly, and it breaks Combeferre's heart to hear his friend's voice so weak, so unsure. Grantaire and Eponine are the only ones in their group of Jewish decent and Combeferre has heard enough to know why Enjolras suddenly has trouble breathing. He moves his hand from his friend's shoulder to the nape of his neck and lets it rest there. "Safe, alive and as fierce as ever," he answers slowly, pulling Enjolras even closer to him when he hears his friend's breath hitch.

Enjolras nods again and Combeferre sees how he bites his lip in an obvious attempt to refrain from crying. When one tear in the end does find its escape from Enjolras' eyes, the blonde quickly wipes it away and clenches his jaw. Combeferre feels the body next to him grow tense and it scares him.

"It's okay to cry, Enjolras," he says quietly, hoping to offer his friend some comfort, but that's when everything spins out of control.

Enjolras pulls himself away from Combeferre, shaking his head furiously and stands up so quickly that he has to take hold of the couch in order not to fall down. "No, no, no, no, no, it is not okay. It is _not_ okay, Combeferre. Don't tell me that. You don't know! It is not okay to cry for me. You don't understand. You don't understand!" His voice is raising in volume and tears are readily streaming down his cheeks now which only makes Enjolras angrier. He presses his fists against his eyes in a futile attempt to stop the tears from falling. When it doesn't work, Enjolras turns on his heels, hurries towards his bedroom and slams the door close behind him, all the while muttering 'it's not okay, it's not okay'. He leaves a shocked, shaking Combeferre behind. 

* * *

Combeferre returns to the couch with a heavy heart a deep sigh. After Enjolras' episode, the bespectacled man spent hours going back and forth trying to convince his friend to unlock the door and let him in. But Enjolras hadn't answered him a single time. Evening had fallen and it was already dark outside. For a brief moment, Combeferre wondered if he should contact Courfeyrac or one of the other Amis, but it was late and he feared that having more people over without Enjolras' consent would only worsen the situation now. He would contact them the next morning.

Combeferre sinks back in the cushions and tries to read in his book, but his eyes keep drifting towards the locked bedroom door. He knows that he made a mistake by telling his friend it was okay to cry, but he doesn't know why it was a mistake. He couldn't figure out the reason that made Enjolras flip out the way that he did. So perhaps Enjolras was right. He didn't understand. He didn't know. And he never would.

He just wishes that Enjolras would open up the door so that he can apologize and make it okay again. After half an hour of pretending to read, Combeferre slams his book shut again and walks back towards the bedroom door. He pleads with his friend to open up. He apologizes over and over again. But Enjolras still doesn't answer him and Combeferre sinks towards the ground with his back against the door. He has no idea how long he sits there and he can't remember falling asleep. He wakes up to the door suddenly opening and he tumbles inside Enjolras' room. Combeferre opens his eyes and looks up to see his friend watching him, eyes once again distant and hollow. In his hands he has a large box filled to the brink.

"Please throw this away for me," Enjolras mumbles quietly, placing the box next to Combeferre on the floor. "I apologize for getting angry. It was not your fault."

Combeferre pushes himself up from the floor and looks past Enjolras into his room. What he sees takes his breath away. Everything that made Enjolras the person that he was, was gone. Combeferre had taken good care to keep his friend's room in good state. He hadn't thrown out anything, not even the numerous notes and papers that had been scattered around the room. But Enjolras had scooped it all up. The notes, the papers, the maps, the lists of Resistance, the flag, the certificates, the letters and most importantly the photos. The only things that were still there were the painting Grantaire gave him and one picture of their group of friends taken before the war started.

"Enjolras," Combeferre breaths quietly, shaking his head at the box, "Don't do this… this is your life, this is you, don't throw it out…"

But Enjolras turns away and walks back into his room. "That is not my life. Not anymore." He shuts the door behind him, but doesn't lock it. Combeferre stares after him for a couple of seconds, picks up the box and stuffs it away in his own bedroom. He will not throw it out. He will keep it safe. He will keep it there just in case Enjolras decides he wants it back. 

* * *

_(I am still very doubtful of this story. Please share your thoughts with me and review? Thanks in advance)_


	3. Chapter 3

_(Thank you all again for the support on this story. It means a lot to me and I'm glad people take interest in this subject. Hope you'll appreciate this chapter)_

* * *

Combeferre turns around in his bed for what must be the hundredth time. He can't sleep. He's exhausted and emotionally drained, but he just can't sleep. There is too much going on in his head. Too many concerns, too much fear and desperation. He glances at the clock on the wall and sighs when he sees it's already half past three in the morning. If he's still awake an hour from now, he will just get up and start the day early. There is a lot to do now that Enjolras has returned, so getting up early might actually be a smart thing to do.

Combeferre turns on his side again and closes his eyes. He wonders if Enjolras is getting any sleep. He hopes so, because his best friend sure as hell needs it. He hasn't seen the blonde since he gave him his box of stuff. Enjolras went back into his room and Combeferre didn't follow him, because he knows when Enjolras wants to be left alone and right at that point, it had been clear as day. Though Combeferre wasn't comfortable with that at all. He hated to see his strong friend so lost and so broken. But the thing he hated even more was the fact that he had absolutely no idea how to help Enjolras feel better. He didn't know the right things to say in a situation like this. He feared that everything he said would be taken the wrong way. He was afraid that he might be insensitive and say something that Enjolras would find insulting. And the last thing Combeferre wanted to do was to push his friend away from him. So maybe it was better to give Enjolras his space and wait for his friend to come to him instead of the other way around.

Maybe…

Combeferre opens his eyes again and stares at the door of his room. He tries to imagine what it was that Enjolras has had to go through while he was imprisoned and he immediately hates himself for it. He shouldn't try and imagine something like that. There was no way that he could. The stories he had heard from his friends had been horrifying, unimaginable. And Combeferre knows that what Enjolras has gone through must've been unspeakable, because the Enjolras he knew was far gone, lost, broken. Breaking Enjolras is no easy job to do, he was the strongest person Combeferre had ever known. His friend must have gone through terrible things to leave him this shadow of the person he once was. And Combeferre feels sick when he tries to imagine what it is that they have done to his friend. He feels so sick with himself that his stomach actually lurches and he is only just in time to make it to the bathroom where he heaves violently until there is nothing left to throw up.

He lets his head rest against the toilet and tries to catch his breath. He closes his eyes and thinks back to the time when Enjolras was the one hugging the toilet seat a few years ago. Before the war. He remembers how his friend had tried to convince him that he wasn't sick. That he was perfectly fine and that Combeferre was safe to go out without worrying over him. Combeferre had let himself be convinced and left. When he came back, he found Enjolras curled around the toilet, drenched in sweat and burning up. Combeferre had not gotten angry but had swooped his friend up, put him to bed and lied down next to him. He wishes he could curl up next to Enjolras right now, hugging him close and making it all okay.

After a couple of minutes he pushes himself up from the ground and walks back to his room. He briefly stops in front of Enjolras' door and listens if he hears anything out of the ordinary. His hand hovers over the doorknob and for a second he really, really wants to go inside. But then he shakes his head and steps back again. If Enjolras is asleep, he will not disturb his friend. With a deep sigh, he walks past Enjolras' room and enters his own. From the corner of his eye, he sees the box with Enjolras' stuff and he has trouble swallowing past the ever present lump in his throat. _Stop it Combeferre. You have to be strong. You have to be the strong one this time. _He steps back into bed and hides away under his blankets. Just when he is about to doze off, he hears a door open in the living room. Combeferre frowns and opens his eyes again, noticing the movement of a shadow in the empty space between his door and the floor. He knows someone is standing just outside of his room and he also knows who that person has to be. Combeferre is holding his breath and he realizes how awful this whole situation is now that he is actually nervous of having Enjolras around.

The person stands in front of his door for at least five minutes and Combeferre has just collected enough courage to get up and confront his friend when the knob finally turns. The door opens to reveal a hesitant Enjolras, hugging himself as he quietly steps inside. Combeferre's heart immediately twists painfully and he wants nothing more than to run forwards and pull his friend close. But he doesn't. Because he knows that it might actually do more bad than good.

Enjolras shifts his weight from one foot to the other and looks to the ground. Combeferre can see him chewing his lip, a habit he has always had whenever he felt nervous or guilty. He remembers the time that Enjolras actually drew blood because he was so anxious to confess to his friend that he had dropped his favorite book in the river. Of course he was still a young child then.

"Are you okay," Enjolras whispers quietly after what must have been at least ten minutes. "I…uh… I heard you just now…a-and, well yeah… I was just wondering…"

Combeferre doesn't know what to say at first. He wonders if he woke Enjolras up or if his friend was already awake. He is pretty sure it's the latter. He clears his throat and shakes his head. "I'm fine, Enjolras," he says quietly after a couple of seconds.

Enjolras looks up at him and Combeferre sees something resembling fear in his friends eyes. "Are you sure? Are you sick? I heard you 'Ferre, don't lie to me please... Please, don't" His voice wavers and he watches Combeferre with pleading eyes.

Combeferre is afraid he'll actually break Enjolras' heart if he lies, his friend looks so unsure and vulnerable standing there in his too large pyjama's. He sits up a little straighter and tries to offer Enjolras a comforting smile. "I'm sure, my friend. I just felt a little sick. Might have eaten something bad... Don't worry."

Enjolras swallows visibly and nods at the floor. He looks terrible. Of course he hadn't looked well earlier either but now that he's standing there in the dark, holding himself, Combeferre has to admit he really looks terrible. He's so pale and so skinny it's almost scary. _No not almost_, Combeferre thinks. _Not almost. It is scary._

_"_I'm sorry if I woke you, Enjolras," Combeferre continues when his friend keeps quiet. "But I'm okay now, you can go back to sleep."

Enjolras nods again, but doesn't move. When he looks back up, there's something is his eyes that Combeferre has never seen there before. He can see the cracks, the agony, the pure fear. He can see how broken his friend truly is, how lost. Living in darkness.

"Wasn't asleep," Enjolras whispers shakily, "I hardly sleep anymore...even though I'm so tired... I can't"

And Combeferre's hasn't any trouble believing that. The haunted look in his friend's eyes and the dark smudges under them speak for themselves. It's the fact that Enjolras readily admits that he hardly sleeps that's unsettling to Combeferre.

"I keep reliving... When I close my eyes... I..." Enjolras doesn't finish but he doesn't need to because Combeferre knows what happens when Enjolras closes his eyes. He knows that his friend is right back in those dreaded camps when he does. What he doesn't know is how to keep that from happening. He doesn't know how to help.

"I apologize for earlier, Combeferre... I had no right to get so angry... so emotional."

And Combeferre wants to cry again because how could Enjolras be so hard on himself? He wants to say that his friend has every right to be emotional. Has more right than anyone in the entire world. But he doesn't say it, because he knows it's not what Enjolras wants to hear. Instead he just shakes his head and smiles again.

Enjolras looks back at his feet and sniffles. He is still not moving and Combeferre wonders if he is lingering on purpose. If he's waiting for something. Combeferre hesitates for a moment and then clears his throat. He doesn't know if what he's about to say will trigger another outburst, but he decides to take the risk just in case it is exactly what his friend needs. He shifts over in his bed and pulls the blankets away. When Enjolras looks back up again, Combeferre says: "you can stay with me if you want..."

He hears Enjolras inhale sharply and for a moment he fears he's done the wrong thing, but then he sees his friend shuffle closer, although hesitantly. He slowly climbs into the bed and curls on his side, facing away from Combeferre. He murmurs a silent thanks and then all is quiet.

Combeferre stares at the ceiling and forces his tears away. He's not going to cry again. He won't. He might be hurting because of the distance between him and Enjolras and he might be afraid that nothing will ever be the same again, but none of what he's feeling will ever compare to what Enjolras is experiencing. And as long as Enjolras won't allow himself to cry, then neither will Combeferre. But he will not shy away from comforting his friend, from being there for him, from being his protector and his guide. So he turns on his side as well and drapes one arm around his friend, letting his hand rest on Enjolras heart. He feels the blonde tense up, but he doesn't let go. And Enjolras doesn't pull away.

Combeferre leans in a little closer until Enjolras' hair is tucked under his chin. He presses his hand a little harder against Enjolras' chest, ignoring the way he feels his friend's ribs, and closes his eyes. "I might never understand what you've gone through, Enjolras," he whispers softly, "I might never know what's going on inside your head and I might never be able to help you the way that I want... I know things will never be the same again and I know you can never share this with me. I know there will always be a distance between us that can't be fixed and I know that kills you just as much as it kills me. But my dearest, dearest friend, no matter what happens, no matter how dark it gets or how lost we feel, I will always have your back. I will always be there for you. I will be there to catch you. No matter how drastically things have changed, that is something that will never change. That no one can ever take away. Never." He kisses the top of Enjolras' head and searches for Enjolras' hand only to intwine their fingers and place them back on his friend's chest. "Please allow me to be there for you. Don't push me away or shut me out, just because I don't know or don't understand. I don't need to. You don't have to share anything with me, just allow me to hold you when you need it. Just allow yourself to shout and curse at me when it makes you feel better. Just allow me back in your heart..."

Combeferre feels Enjolras' shoulder shake and hugs him a little closer. He's not going to say that everything will be okay and he's not going to promise Eniolras that he will be fine. He can't say things like that anymore because words like that hold little to no worth in a situation like this. Combeferre doesn't say anything when Enjolras starts crying: he doesn't say anything when sobs wrack his fragile body. All he does is hold him tight and keep their hands close to Enjolras' heart. And this time Enjolras doesn't get angry for crying, he doesn't get up an he doesn't twist out of Combeferre's hold. This time, he allows himself to break down. He presses closer to Combeferre and he squeezes his friend's hand with all his might.

Neither of the two friends get any sleep that night. Nor do they say anything other until the sun comes up and lightens the room. They just lay there, close to each other. Enjolras in Combeferre's arms. Never losing the grip on each others hands.

* * *

_(I hope this chapter lived up to your expectations and that I'm still going about this the right way. I want to bring in one or two of the others in the next chapter. Please share your thoughts with me, I highly appreciate them concerning the subject. Thanks!)_


	4. Chapter 4

_(Hi guys, thanks again for the support on this story. It means a lot. Here's the next chapter. I hope you'll appreciate it. Please review and let me know what you think?) _

* * *

Combeferre reluctantly opens his eyes. He hasn't slept the entire night and even though he is exhausted, he refuses to stay in bed any longer. Not that he doesn't feel comfortable lying here, with Enjolras curled up in his arms. On the contrary, it feels incredible to finally be able to hold his best friend again, to keep him safe and close. It settles his heavy heart and it loosens the icy grip around his throat. Combeferre briefly wonders if Enjolras feels the same way. He doesn't believe that Enjolras necessarily feels better spending the night with Combeferre in his bed – there is probably nothing that could make Enjolras feel 'better' at this point – but he does think that it makes his friend feel a little less lonely. Indeed, it was Enjolras who came into his room and stayed there until Combeferre made room for him on the bed. That must have been a sign that the young man wanted to stay with him, mustn't it?

Combeferre yawns, squeezes Enjolras' hand softly and turns on his back. He knows his friend is awake too even though he doesn't move with Combeferre but stays curled up on his side. Combeferre lets him, allowing his friend some time to get back to himself, to rebuild the walls that crumbled down so fiercely only a few hours ago. He glances at the clock and sees that it is only eight in the morning. He can't believe Enjolras has only been here for fifteen hours. Now that he has him back again, Combeferre can't remember how it was to not have him here. Or maybe he can, but he doesn't want to. It hurts too much to even try. He knows he's going to have to contact their friends today. Not only do they want Enjolras back just as much as he did, Combeferre knows they have also been extremely worried about his own well being. When Enjolras was taken from them, Combeferre was no longer himself, but when Courfeyrac told him that his best friend had been stuck in Bergen-Belsen, a dreadful camp that was liberated two months ago, Combeferre knew he had hit rock bottom and he had shut everyone out.

He lets his head fall to the side and gently kisses the back of Enjolras' head. If he looks closely, he can see that a few strands of hair have started to curl. Combeferre hopes that they will one day form that glorious mop of hair again that is almost like a halo according to Grantaire. Though Enjolras has never admitted it, Combeferre knows he loved his hair, he always took good care of it and he always liked it when someone gave him a compliment. He doubts if Enjolras will ever care about it again. It's another one of those small things that Combeferre loves about his best friend but that will never be the same again.

"Enjolras," Combeferre says quietly after a couple of minutes. He waits for a response, but none comes. "I'm going to make us something to eat… You can stay in the bed if you want, I can bring it here. Is there anything you want in particular?"

Enjolras sighs and slowly turns on his back to look at Combeferre. His eyes are still a little puffy from crying and he looks so, so tired. "I'm not hungry, I don't need anything."

And Combeferre knows that he shouldn't smile at that. He knows that there's nothing funny about this situation. But he can't help himself, because for the first time since Enjolras' return, he recognizes the best friend he knew and loved. He doesn't know how often he has heard Enjolras say those exact words, but it has been many times and Combeferre would have never thought that there would ever come a time when he was happy to hear them. His smile fades quickly enough, though, when he sees the confused expression on Enjolras' face and he sits up straight, no longer able to look his friend in the eyes.

"You need to eat, Enjolras, you have to build up your strength. You know that as well as I do. I'm not going to force a whole meal on you, but you have to eat something. Have you even seen yourself? You're severely malnourished and you look like you can break or collapse at any time." Combeferre quickly climbs out of his bed, turns his back to Enjolras and pinches the bridge of his nose. He hadn't meant to sound so harsh and he curses himself as soon as the words left his mouth.

When he turns around to apologize he sees that Enjolras has pushed himself up as well, now sitting up straight in the bed with his eyebrows drawn together and a hurt look on his face. Combeferre lets out a deep breath and shakes his head. "I'm sorry… I didn't mean to sound insensitive… I just… You need to eat, Enjolras… I need you to eat. If not for yourself, then please do it for me?"

And that seems to work, because Enjolras ducks his head and nods slowly. When he looks back up, the hurt look has still not disappeared from his eyes, but Combeferre can see understanding there as well. "Just something light then… if you have it," Enjolras mutters quietly, sounding almost embarrassed. "I can't… M-My stomach doesn't really handle food that well yet…Especially solid food…"

Combeferre curses himself again at hearing Enjolras quiet words. Of course he wasn't hungry. It was only logical and it had nothing to do with stubbornness. If his friend had lived on no more than five hundred calories a day for months on end – which was normal according to Courfeyrac, who had heard it from a returned prisoner – then Enjolras' body had grown accustomed to not eating. It had learned itself to not be hungry. Two months of freedom, with little care and lots of travelling had probably not done much to change that. Eating regularly was going to be something that Enjolras would have to learn again. Combeferre sits back down on the bed and reaches out to hold Enjolras' hand.

"I'm sorry," he says again, looking straight into his best friend's blue eyes. "I wasn't thinking… And I shouldn't have said it like that. It is not your fault that you have trouble eating… I know it's not. I'm sorry if I hurt you, my friend…"

Enjolras smiles weakly at him and shakes his head. "It's alright… And I'll come with you. I don't need to stay in bed. I'm just going to change first, if that's okay with you…" He pushes himself up from the bed and walks towards the bedroom door. Combeferre follows close behind.

"You can change here if you want," Combeferre says, trying to sound nonchalant, as he opens his wardrobe and peeks inside, "I guess my clothes will fit you just as well as your own will do now."

Enjolras turns back around and shakes his head again, blushing a little. "No that's fine, 'Ferre… I uh… I just want to change in my room, if you don't mind."

And with that he slips out, crosses the living room and goes into his own bedroom, quietly locking the door behind him. When Combeferre hears the lock turn, he understands exactly why Enjolras doesn't want to change here. He has seen the way his best friend makes sure most of his skin is covered at all times. Combeferre can only guess at the numerous scars that must be littered across his friend's body and it makes him feel sick again. White hot furry suddenly runs through his veins and wants to throw something. He wants to find the people who did this to Enjolras. He wants to hurt them, torture them, kill them. He wants to make them suffer like they have made Enjolras suffer. He has never known rage like this before, never known that it was even possible to feel this way, and it scares him. It scares him, because he can literally feel that he is losing himself and he can't afford that. Not now. Not now he has Enjolras back. So he carefully sits back on his bed again and takes a few deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down. When his heart has slowed down to more comfortable rate, he stands again and gets dressed.

* * *

"I want to contact the Amis this morning, Enjolras," Combeferre says kindly as he and Enjolras are settled at the table, Combeferre with a plate of cheese and bread and Enjolras with a small bowl of yoghurt and some fruit. He waits for his friend to look up at him. "They are missing you terribly and have been praying for you to come home as much as I have. I didn't contact them yesterday, because I thought you could use a silent homecoming and we both know that they would've all barged in here if they knew, but now… they have to know, don't you think?"

Enjolras swallows the spoon of yoghurt and nods. "I actually thought you told them already…" He admits quietly, "I just figured they were afraid of seeing me or something." He quickly looks back at the bowl in his hands and bites his lip. That's enough for Combeferre to understand that his friend hadn't meant to admit to that. He reaches over the table and briefly holds Enjolras' hand.

"They're your friends, Enjolras. They love you. Of course they want to see you. And yes, maybe they will be a bit nervous at first after everything that has happened. Same goes for you, doesn't it? Things have changed and we will all have to learn how to adjust. But we'll make it work, I'm sure of that."

Enjolras nods once and pulls his hand away, not out of anger or annoyance, but because he doesn't want to give Combeferre the impression that he is in need of comfort or pity all the time. And Combeferre understands.

They eat the rest of their breakfast mostly in silence, both of them not feeling comfortable enough for small talk, though both for different reasons. Combeferre notices the distant look in Enjolras' eyes and he knows that his friend is lost in his mind again, probably reliving memories that Combeferre will never learn. And even though he really wants to pull Enjolras away from that dark place, he doesn't know how to do it. It feels odd to just start talking about random things. Besides, he can't even think of a random subject to talk about, no matter how hard he tracks his mind. It all feels so wrong and Combeferre knows that 'adjusting' to one another is not going to be as easy as it sounds. He hopes that maybe Courfeyrac will be better at keeping Enjolras' mind from drifting off. Their jubilant friend has a way with making people feel better.

He smiles when Enjolras excuses himself from the kitchen table and moves over to the couch in their living room. His friend stops at the bookcase and pulls out one of the novels that Combeferre always loves but that Enjolras has never given much attention to. Enjolras never really used to like novels, he preferred non-fiction books. But maybe non-fiction books weren't the way to go when one desperately needed to escape his own mind… Combeferre watches Enjolras curl up on the couch, knees drawn in and wants nothing more than to sit their next to him. Reading together, like they have done so many times before.

But Combeferre has phone calls to make. And because he doesn't have the luxury of owning a phone, he has to leave his apartment for a while and go the phone booth at the end of the street. He doesn't like it that he has to leave Enjolras here by himself, even if it is only for a few minutes, but when he tells his friend, Enjolras only nods and doesn't seem to be bothered by it at all. But when Combeferre leaves the apartment, he doesn't see the way his friend tenses up. He doesn't see how his grip on the book he holds tightens until his knuckles turn white and he doesn't see the way Enjolras curls in even further on himself.

When he arrives at the phone booth, Combeferre prepares himself for a difficult conversation. He really wants to call Courfeyrac, but he knows his friend doesn't have a phone at home either and he won't be at his work yet. So that leaves a few of their other friends. Combeferre decides to call Joly, he has known the man for a long time and he believes him to be responsible enough to pass the news on to the others and plan a visit.

_"Hello?"_

Combeferre smiles. He hasn't heard his friend's voice in a long time. He hasn't heard any of their friend's in a long time.

"Hello Joly, it's Combeferre."

_"Combeferre? God, it's good to hear from you… We've been worried my friend. You haven't been to the meetings, you won't open your door, are you alright? Is everything okay?"_

And Combeferre can feel tears forming in his eyes again. But they are happy tears. Or at least, relatively happy tears. Tears of relief. He has to swallow passed the lump in his throat and lets out a laugh.

"Yeah… Yes, I'm okay. He's back, Joly… Enjolras…"

It is silent for a few seconds and it is clear that Joly doesn't know what to say or how to respond to the information Combeferre gave him. He might not even believe it. Combeferre knows he wouldn't if their roles were reversed.

"He's back, Joly… He arrived at our apartment yesterday… I... He's alive and he's back, he's back here with us… I wanted to let you all know yesterday, but I thought it would be best to give him some space… you know, b-but.. You guys have to come…"

_"Combeferre… Are you… Is he… How is he?"_

Now it is Combeferre's turn to fall silent. After a few deep breaths he says: "Not good… Far from good actually. He's traumatized, underfed… Joly, you won't even recognize him when you see him… Not just physically, but mentally as well… But he's alive. He's alive and he's back and that's all I've got to focus on right now. Just… get the other Amis together and drop by this afternoon, alright? I would gather everyone myself, but I don't want to leave him alone."

_"I… Y-yes, of course… God, Combeferre, I can't believe it. He's really back? A-Are you sure he can handle everyone at once?"_

"Yes, he wants to see everyone. Just…" Combeferre says, sighing softly, "Just don't ask him questions about what happened… He doesn't want to talk about it…"

_"Of course… I'll make sure everyone knows. 'Ferre… Tell him we love him, alright?"_

Combeferre says he will and after a few more words, they hang up. He quickly walks back to the apartment, his heart feeling lighter now that he knows that their friends will be there that afternoon. This might be good for Enjolras. Seeing everybody. Knowing that they are all alive and well, that they were able to keep Grantaire and Eponine safe. Combeferre hopes this will lift Enjolras' spirits a little.

* * *

It's emotional. It's emotional and awkward and wonderful and awful at the same time.

The Amis arrive in the afternoon, along with Eponine and Gavroche. Enjolras pretends he's looking forward to their visit, but Combeferre can tell he's nervous. Combeferre is certain that Joly has prepared their friends what to expect, knows that none of them will crowd Enjolras or push him into talking or answering any questions. And he tells Enjolras the same thing, but it doesn't seem to do anything to comfort his best friend or settle his nerves.

When their friends knock on the door, it's Combeferre who opens it. The first one entering is of course Courfeyrac. He pushes passed Combeferre, hardly acknowledging him, and walks straight up to Enjolras, enfolding the blond in a bone crushing hug. He buries his head in the crook of Enjolras' neck and cries. He cries and whispers and curses. His words are hardly understandable, but one thing sounds loud and clear. "Thank God you're back." Courfeyrac doesn't let go of Enjolras when the other Amis come in to greet him. He keeps a firm hold on his friend's hand.

Most of them cry when they see Enjolras. Everyone hugs him and everyone tells him they are so grateful and so happy to have him back. And Enjolras smiles in return and tells them it's good to see them, but Combeferre can see how disconnected he feels. He can see the confusion in his friend's eyes, the desperation and he knows that Enjolras doesn't feel comfortable. Knows that his friend has lost the connection between them. Knows how hard he is trying and sees how it frustrates him when it doesn't work.

When there falls an awkward silence between them, it's Gavroche who tries to break it. He chuckles and goes to sit between Courfeyrac's legs on the floor. Everyone knows that what he says, he means in the best way possible and no one could have predicted that Enjolras would react the way that he did.

"Hey Enjolras," Gavroche pipes up cheerfully, "Did you know there are all these heroic stories about you in the city? How you didn't back down from the Nazi's and went down fighting. You're a hero man! I bet you showed those Nazi's there's no messing with the Fiery Phoenix from France, right?"

Enjolras' head comes up and he looks at Gavroche. "I did," he says quietly, "I did and they shot ten of my fellow inmates for it." His eyes widen a little when the words leave his mouth and Combeferre can see how he rigid he goes. Enjolras clearly hadn't meant to say that. The room falls silent and everyone is holding their breath. "Excuse me for a moment," Enjolras whispers and he stands up and disappears in his bedroom.

The tension in the living room is so thick, one could cut it with the bluntest of knives.

* * *

_(Thank you for reading, please share your thoughts with me. I'm trying to give you all a closer look into the things that happened to Enjolras without having him actually talking about it, because I don't think that's something he would do.)_


	5. Chapter 5

_(Thank you guys for the support and kind words. It means a lot to me. This is chapter is from Enjolras' point of view. And therefore a bit different from the others.)_

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_"You think you're being brave, boy? Standing up for yourself and your mates? Let me sh__ow you what we do with brave boys around here."_

_He refused to lower his gaze and stared directly into the eyes of Walter Höcker commander of camp Neuengamme. His arms were roughly pulled behind his back. Blood slowly trickled down his face from a small cut above his eyebrow and he thought that this was it. This was his ending. He had tried to plot an uprising and he failed. He had tried to stay true to the person he was and now he was going to get punished for it. He didn't care. After just two months of imprisonment, death was going to be a blissful welcoming. He'd rather die as himself than live on as one of those ghosts roaming around the camp._

_"Round up the inmates of barrack 183," the commander told his one of his guards, never breaking eye contact with his fiery, blond prisoner._

_He frowned. Why would they bring his fellow inmates here? Were they going to make them watch his death? Make an example out of him? The commander's face was only inches away from his, jaw clenched and eyes narrowed. He knew the man was trying to stare him down, but he would not let that happen. He would face his death with his head held high._

_Soon enough the inmates he shared his barrack with arrived at the scene. The guards placed them around him. They had to form two neat lines with him in the middle. The inmates did not look at him. They were trembling and stared at the ground. The commander had still not averted his gaze and neither had he. Both pair of eyes blazing. Then Höcker nodded the smallest of nods. It could have been easily missed had the guards not been trained to pick up on it._

_Out of the corner of his eye he could see a guard approaching. The man drew a pistol and placed it at the temple of the inmate closest to him. He could feel his heart sink when it dawned on him what they were going to do. There was another nod from Höcker and then a shot rang out. He could feel a few drops of blood splash his face and he heard the soft sound of a body dropping to the floor. His gaze was still trained on his commander's, but his heart was picking up speed and his stomach protested fiercely._

_He tried to keep his face in check, but he was shaking. Anger, guilt and grief coursed through his body. He lost his composure when his third fellow inmate sagged to the ground. "Stop," he whispered. "Please, stop." He was no longer watching the commander. His eyes now shut tight and his knees buckling from shock, the guards were the only thing keeping him up. But they did not stop. Not until a ninth shot rang out and there was only one inmate left. That's when they forced him to open his eyes and pushed the last prisoner down to the ground, right in front of him. He felt the weight of a gun being pressed into his shaking hand. Two guards held his arm and body in a death grip so he couldn't move and surprise his enemies. His finger was placed around the trigger. His wide eyes shot up to the commander. The man kept a straight face. "Your actions killed them. Their deaths are on your hands. Now pull the trigger, or it's ten more after him."_

_At that point he had lost all his pride, his dignity. He was shaking his head, he was pleading and begging, he was crying. When his eyes met those of his fellow inmate, he saw fear and grief. But there was understanding too. "Please do it," was what those eyes were telling him. A tenth shot rang out. They had broken him_.

* * *

Enjolras is trembling from head to toe when he steps into his bedroom and closes the door behind him. He sinks down on his bed and lets his head rest against the wall. With some effort, he forces himself to block out the horrifying images that try to invade his mind. He has long since learned how to shut himself off from his memories. He would not have been alive if he hadn't learned to do that. But it's harder now that he is back. Now that he has to try to match his recent life with the one he had lived before the war. He doesn't recognize the person he used to be. It's not even a memory to him. It feels like that Enjolras is a different person, a faint acquaintance only. One he doesn't understand. He feels the same disconnection with the person he used to be as he feels with his friends. He knows they are there for him, knows they care about him and want to keep him safe. He knows he loves them and he knows he wants them around. But he doesn't understand them anymore. He spaces out when they speak to him. He can't relate to them. Not anymore. It feels like he's stuck in a raging fire and his friend can do nothing but watch it burn, they are no part of it. It feels like he's standing at one side of a cliff while his friends stand at the other. And there is no bridge to make the two come togehther.

He had not meant to say what he said. Those were secrets. Deep, dark secrets that no one was supposed to know. Guilt that he was meant to carry on his own for the rest of his life. But Gavroche had put him off guard and the words just slipped out.

Enjolras pulls his knees up and hooks his arms around his legs. He doesn't know how to do this. He doesn't know how to act in front of his friends. Doesn't know what he is supposed to say. He hates for them to worry and he doesn't want to see them troubled or pained because of him. He knows they long for him to be the person he used to be, but he can't. He isn't. And he never will be. Of course his friends will accept and love him, no matter what, but Enjolras can still feel their pain, their disappointment. He can see it when Combeferre tries to hide his tears. He can see it when Courfeyrac looks at his forehead instead of into his eyes. It's not the first time that he wishes he had died. He may have survived, but he's not alive. Not really. He's breathing and eating, but his mind is stuck at the camp. His body is still here, but his soul is desperately trying to move on.

He hears his door creak and he knows without opening his eyes that it's Combeferre. He loves his friend. Cares about him more than he has ever cared about anyone in his life. Enjolras knows how hard his friend is trying. How much he wants to help and how desperately he wants to be there for him. Enjolras wishes he was able to. He wants nothing more than to feel safe and loved again. But though Combeferre brings a warm feeling to his chest, he's still trapped in ice cold loneliness.

"Enjolras"

He feels the bed sink and he knows Combeferre is sitting down next to him. When he opens his eyes, he sees that not only Combeferre is there, but Courfeyrac as well. Enjolras tries to offer them a smile, but he can feel it turn into a grimace. He wants to say he's fine, wants to take their concern away. But he can't force the words past his lips. So instead he shifts and allows them both to climb on the bed, one on either side of him. Courfeyrac immediately curls around him and keeps a tight hold. Combeferre is a little more reserved and settles for a firm grip on his hand. Enjolras tries to draw comfort from them, tries so very hard. It hurts all the more when he fails. There is no getting passed the iron grip around his heart.

"I just needed a minute," Enjolras says quietly, resting his head on top of Courfeyracs soft brown curls. "I was planning to come out soon." It's a lie. He wasn't planning anything. But he thinks that's what his friend want to hear. It's the closest thing to _I'm fine _that he can manage to say.

"They've gone home," Combeferre answers softly. "They'll return tomorrow if you want them to."

Enjolras frowns and nods. He feels relieved that he doesn't have to face his friends after his little slip of a few moments ago. He thinks he can handle Courfeyrac and Combeferre. He knows they will not make him uncomfortable if they can help it.

"'Vroche says he's sorry," Courfeyrac mutters into Enjolras' chest. His voice is hoarse and raw. Small. Enjolras knows he's fighting against his tears. "He didn't mean to upset you… He was just nervous, I think."

Tears suddenly spring to his eyes when he hears those words. He hates this. He doesn't want his friends to be nervous around him. He doesn't want Gavroche, only a child, to feel uncomfortable and guilty because of him. "I know," Enjolras manages to say. It's hard to speak with his throat constricting the way it is. "I'm not upset with him... It's not his fault."

They are silent for a little while. Combeferre and Courfeyrac are content to have Enjolras close in between them, holding on to him, comforting him. And Enjolras doesn't have the heart to deny them.

"Do you want us to leave?" Combeferre asks kindly after a couple of minutes.

Enjolras thinks about it. It's a genuine question and he knows that they will go if he asks them to. But even though their presence does not do much to make him feel better, he does prefer to have them near. He prefers their company above being alone. He feels even less comfortable on his own. So he shakes his head and whispers 'no'.

"It will get better, Enjolras," Courfeyrac says softly, his voice finding strenght again. "I don't know when, but it will. Just watch and see."

Enjolras doesn't reply. He knows that Courfeyrac honestly believes that it will get better. But he doubts it. And he knows Combeferre doubts it too, because out of the corner of his eye he sees him duck his head and look away. It sends a painful pang straight to his heart. It hurts to see his friend lose faith.

"We will work on it together, all of us," Courfeyrac continues, "We might be a broken group now, but we'll rise from our ashes, I know we will. We will help each other, be there for each other. We will be honest and just in our judgements and we'll flourish. We all will... You will too Enjolras. We'll find new ways. We'll be the same again."

"No, we won't," Enjolras interrupts him, a little harsher than he meant to. He swallows and shifts a little. "I will never be who I was before, Courfeyrac. I can't and I don't want to. I don't even remember it. Too much has happened."

Courfeyrac shrugs and lets out a breath. "Then we'll be better," he says, making it sound simple and inevitable. "Because even the darkest days will eventually see the light again. Even the deepest pit will have a bottom. Even the longest night will know a morning. You taught me that once. And I'll teach it right back. I'll prove you right."

Enjolras listens to his friend and loves him for trying. He feels Combeferre squeeze his hand and he leans a little further in his friends' touch. They have every right to believe he will get better. They have every tight to try. Enjolras just hopes they won't be too devestated when they fail.

* * *

"Is it true what Gavroche said?" Enjolras asks quietly after a long while.

Combeferre chuckles. "About people calling you the Fiery Phoenix of France?" he answers, smiling when he hears Courfeyrac snort, "Why, do want it to be true?"

To his own amazement, Enjolras feels a smile tug at his lips and he ducks his head. "No, about people remembering my actions?"

Courfeyrac leans up on his elbows and lifts Enjolras' chin up. "Yes," he says seriously, "That is true. There's word of your actions, Enjolras. People know your name. France knows your name." Then he grins and slides of the bed to disappear into the living room.

Enjolras glances at Combeferre, who just shrugs his shoulders.

When Courfeyrac re-enters the room, he's holding a folded paper, which he gives to Enjolras. Enjolras opens it wordlessly and lets out a faint gasp of surprise. On the paper is a sketch of himself, surrounded by fire. He wears a fierce expression and his hair is glowing like a halo. His arms are replaced with red and golden wings and a French flag is wrapped around his waist. The picture is breathtaking and Enjolras can't tear his eyes away. It's not him... And yet it is. A strange feeling settles in his heart. A feeling he had thought long since gone.

"The Fiery Phoenix of France," Courfeyrac whispers. "It's been our symbol and icon since they took you away from us. Grantaire drew it."

Enjolras just stares at it, mesmerized. Then he suddenly thrusts the paper back into Courfeyracs hand. He's breathing rapidly and his eyes tear up. He feels confused. "Don't show this to me again...," he chokes out.

He misses the knowing look his two friends share when Courfeyrac takes the picture back.

TBC.

* * *

(_As you have noticed, I decided to put a flashback in this story. Please share your thoughts with me on this story and its development. It would mean a lot. Thank you!)_


	6. Chapter 6

_(Hi guys! Thank you so much for the support on this chapter. It is highly appreciated and I am so thankful that you think this is important. I'm sorry it took me a while to get this up. Here's the next installment. Hope you'll like it)_

* * *

Combeferre shifts slowly, carefully, on Enjolras' bed. The three of them have been sitting there for quite some time now and his muscles start to ache from the position he's in, but he doesn't dare to move. Not now that Enjolras has finally fallen asleep and is resting comfortably against his chest. Not now that Courfeyrac has draped himself partly across Enjolras' body – almost like a human blanket – in an attempt to shield his friend from all harm. Not now that for the first time since Enjolras' return, he feels right. He's at the right place, with the right people, drawing comfort from each other. And that is how it should be. How it should always be. So as long as Combeferre has his two best friends this close, resting peacefully against him, he will withstand all the muscle ache in the world.

He can almost pretend everything is alright. He can almost convince himself that nothing has changed. When he closes his eyes and focuses on the warmth of Enjolras' body against him, he can almost imagine himself going back in time when life was relatively carefree and happy.

Almost.

And then Enjolras' haunted face flashes before his eyes. Then he can see the hollow, glassy eyes, that are swimming with tears of fear and despair. He can feel the bony shoulders, the awfully skinny wrists, the emaciated chest. He can see the way Enjolras' clothes hang shapelessly around his body… When he closes his eyes, reality slams into his chest like an iron anchor.

And so Combeferre forces his eyes open again. He turns his head a little and lets his cheek rest gently on top of Enjolras' soft blonde hair. At least his younger friend allowed them this moment of intimacy. At least he didn't shut them out. And for now, that was enough. They could and would work on the rest. Courfeyrac was right. They were all there for him, they were all prepared to help wherever they could. It would never be the same again, Enjolras was right about that. But maybe they could be different. Maybe they could be better. Combeferre wants to believe that. He has to believe that. It's an extremely difficult thing to do when you look at Enjolras' broken spirit, but Combeferre refuses to give up all hope. That's not in his nature.

He knows the old Enjolras is still in there, somewhere. He is certain he saw it when Enjolras examined Grantaire's drawing of him an hour earlier. He is certain he saw a flash of that defiant, passionate and belligerent nature in those bright blue eyes. And Combeferre knows Courfeyrac saw it too. If he knows his friend at all, he is sure that Courfeyrac showed Enjolras the picture for that exact reason. To make their friend remember who he is. Or was. To show him that that person is still there, even though he has suffered unimaginably, even though he might not ever be that person again. The fact that Enjolras suddenly couldn't look at the drawing anymore was proof that he had remembered who he was, what he stood for. And that had scared him.

Combeferre sighs quietly and brings his hand up to rub at his eyes. It must be nearing dinner time and he is starting to get hungry. After breakfast, Enjolras had not eaten anything more because his stomach could not handle three meals a day yet. Combeferre had been too busy worrying about the blonde man to remember to eat lunch himself. He knew that if it was up to his friend, Enjolras would be fine living on just the bowl of fruit and yoghurt he had that morning, but Combeferre was going to insist that he eat something for dinner too. He wanted Enjolras back on a nutritious diet as soon as possible, so that he could rebuild his strength and gain some much needed weight.

Next to him, Enjolras shifts a little. Combeferre can feel the way Enjolras curls his hand into his blouse and holds the material in a death grip. When he looks closer, he can see that his friend's eyes are moving rapidly behind their lids and his breath is coming out in quick gasps. Combeferre knows his friend is dreaming. And he is certain that those dreams are anything but pleasant. Nightmares. Enjolras is reliving his darkest moments, memories that Combeferre will probably never learn about. He feels conflicted. On the one hand, he really wants to wake his friend up. The fewer time he spends trapped in those memories, the better. Enjolras has been through enough. He doesn't deserve to be plagued and haunted by bad dreams after he had survived the darkest nightmare in real life. On the other hand… Enjolras desperately needed the sleep. His body and mind were exhausted, sleep deprived. His friend had admitted that he hardly slept anymore, that he tried to fight it as much and as long as possible. But that afternoon, squished between the bodies of his two closest friends, sleep had come easily.

Combeferre looks down and gently noses the soft blonde hair. He hears Enjolras' breath hitch and he sees how he squeezes his eyes tightly shut, curling into the protective chest of his oldest friend. He doesn't wake. The movement does rouse Courfeyrac though, and the brown haired student slowly blinks his eyes open. He stays still for a second and then looks up to Combeferre, who gives him a small smile and presses a finger against his lips. Courfeyrac looks at Enjolras and grins. When he realizes he is still lying half on top of his friend, he carefully moves away until he's sitting up straight with his back against the headboard, just as Combeferre. Enjolras' stirs between them, but remains asleep.

"How long have we been out?" Courfeyrac whispers quietly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He yawns and pulls a hand through his tousled curls.

Combeferre leans in a little closer. "Not that long… An hour, give or take," he says quietly. His eyes lock on those of Courfeyrac for a moment before shifting back to Enjolras. "I think he's having a nightmare…"

Courfeyrac frowns and looks down at his friend. Indeed, Enjolras looks troubled and tense. His lips are moving at a rapid pace, but he doesn't make any sound. Courfeyrac can't make up what he is saying. Maybe he isn't saying anything at all. "Don't you think we should wake him, then?"

Combeferre lets out a small sigh. He shakes his head. "I don't know, Courf… I want to, my heart tells me to… but –"

"But he needs his sleep," Courfeyrac finishes quietly.

Combeferre nods. "Last night he told me he tries to fight it off as long as he can. Ever since the camp was liberated he's having dreadful night terrors. He won't say about what they are or why he only started having them after he was free, but I think it has something to do with guilt."

"Guilt?" Courfeyrac mutters softly and he gives Combeferre a confused look. "Why guilt? He hasn't done anything wrong…"

Combeferre shakes his head. He looks up at his friend with a sad look in his eyes. "Survivor's guilt, Courf," he whispers ruefully. "He feels guilty for being alive, for surviving the camps while so many others died. He won't even allow himself to cry. He says it's not okay for him to cry. That he doesn't deserve to..."

Courfeyrac swallows thickly and looks away. He doesn't know what to say to that. After a few moments of silence, he focuses his attention back on Enjolras. "His lips are moving," he says softly, "But I can't make out what he's saying..."

"Sorry," Combeferre whispers, voice cracking a little, "He's saying 'sorry'."

Courfeyrac blows out a breath and sniffs a little. "I think we should wake him," he says after a couple of seconds. Combeferre can see the tears in his eyes and he reaches out over Enjolras to take his friend's hand. Courfeyrac looks up at him, his bottom lip trembling, and continues: "It's not fair for him to suffer like that, we need to wake him up, so he sees that we're here and that we've got his back. Please 'Ferre..."

Combeferre watches his friend and smiles sadly. He knows Enjolras needs his sleep and his rational self tells him to wait it out. Just a little while longer. But his heart twists and aches at the sight of Enjolras' troubled face and he finds himself agreeing with Courfeyrac.

And so he leans forward and gently starts to card his fingers through the short strands of hair

* * *

_Enjolras watches confused as he sees hundreds of people come marching into the camp that morning. They look terrible, like walking skeletons. He feels himself shiver as he takes in the empty look in their eyes and he wonders if he looks the same. _

_He doesn't know where they come from or why they are here. Enjolras has been in Bergen Belsen for four months now. It was worse than Neuengamme in the way that Enjolras had to watch how some of the inmates were treated. His jewish comrades, the scum of the camp... It made him feel sick that there wasn't anything he could do for them. They kept the war prisoners seperated from the prisoners brought here because of their religion, or 'race', as the Nazi's said, except during work. Once or twice he had managed to split his meager meal with a young teenaged boy, but it had not been enough. _

_There were no children in Bergen Belsen. Only those who were strong enough to work. The young teenaged boy he had met had only been thirteen years old. Enjolras had had no idea if the boy's mother and father were in the camp too. Even if he did, there was nothing he could do. They had pulled the dead boy away from his arms and took him somewhere Enjolras did not know. Never to be seen or heard from again. _

_But these people, these hundreds of people stumbling and falling as they walked, come from someplace else and Enjolras doesn't understand. The camp is already loaded, far too crowded. Infected with disease and death and there is far too little food. More people die each day. It couldn't be because they needed more workers... One look at these people and one would know they wouldn't even make it through the morning. _

_The camp staff is barking at them. Pushing and shoving them towards barracks that are already cramped. _

_Enjolras quickly looks to the ground when a Kapo approaches him. He hates himself for trembling, but he can't help being scared. The bulky man pulls his head up by his hair and asks him if there is room left in their barrack. No, Enjolras says, they are already full. He sees the prisoners behind the Kapo shake with fear and they watch him with pleading eyes. Enjolras wants to help, but he can't. He has to choose for his fellow inmates now. There is no room for anyone else. It doesn't matter. The Kapo backhands him and forces ten new inmates into their barrack, anyway._

_Enjolras doesn't sleep that night. It's cold and there are too many sounds. Bugs are crawling their way through the thin blankets and inmates cough and turn every other second. He lies next to one of the new prisoners. A middle-aged man who is pressed against him and burns far too hot in a night as cold as this one. Enjolras asks where he comes from, where he was imprisoned before coming here. The man tells him he was in Auschwitz before, but the labor prisoners had to walk from there to Germany and were transported by train to Bergen-Belsen. Many of them died on the way. Enjolras feels a little hopeful. If the Nazi's are transporting prisoners from Poland back to Germany, maybe that means the Allied forces are finally making progress._

_The man dies that night._

_Enjolras finds out in the morning when he turns and stares straight into a pair of hollow, empty eyes. It has happened before and it doesn't even scare him anymore. Along with two of his fellow inmates, he carries the man down from the upper boards and lays him outside of their barrack. The body stays there for a week until it's finally taken away._

_Enjolras is back at his barrack. He is alone, except for one figure sitting huddled in the corner. The figure is trembling and Enjolras wants to approach him, help him. He places his hand on the man's shoulder. He jumps. It's Grantaire._

_But it's not Grantaire. It can't be Grantaire, because Grantaire was safe and this man is wearing stripes. This man has his hair shaved. This man is so thin, Enjolras can see all his bones. His sunken cheeks too profound in his face. This man is scaring him, because he is crying and Enjolras doesn't understand what to do. He can't help. He tries to reach out, but something holds him in place. His arms are held tight behind his back. Enjolras tries to speak, but he can't produce any sound._

_Behind him, someone moves and pulls out a gun. Enjolras turns and sees himself. He sees his stoic, cold self. He is wearing his red jacket and a French flag is wrapped around his waist. His curls surround his head like a halo. Enjolras is almost convinced he's really seeing himself, but then his eyes fall on the small pin on his jacket. A Nazi pin. His heart rate picks up speed and he panics. He doesn't understand what's happening._

_Grantaire's eyes shift from the real Enjolras to the Nazi-Enjolras and his eyes widen. He is begging for his life. He is saying how he has always done everything Enjolras asked of him. He's pleading with Enjolras to understand, to have mercy. But the curly Enjolras only steps closer and presses the gun against Grantaire's temple._

_Enjolras tries to scream. He tries to fight his way towards his friend. But it is no use. He can only watch and cry. 'Sorry, sorry, sorry,' he says, over and over again._

_Grantaire looks back at him and shakes his head in disbelief. 'Please…,' he begs a final time. A small piece of paper falls from his hands. It's a drawing. A Phoenix. _

_The shot rings out._

* * *

"Enjolras! Enjolras, wake up mon petit ami. You're having a nightmare." The voice comes from far away and it's hard to focus.

Large, soft hands caress his face and card through his hair. Another hand squeezes his forearm. "You are safe. It's over, you're back. Wake up, open your eyes. We've got you."

Enjolras does what he is told and blinks his eyes open. Courfeyrac and Combeferre are both watching him with a worried frown. _Nightmare_, Enjolras thinks. _It's not real. It's not all real._ He swallows thickly and sits up straight. The vision of Grantaire still swims before his eyes. He coughs and feels sick. When he thinks he might throw up, he pushes himself away from his friends and stumbles out of the bedroom. His buckling knees carry him to the bathroom where he collapses in front of the toilet and heaves violently.

He needs to get out. Get out now, clear his head.

There's a hand rubbing gentle circles on his back. Another one presses a cold cloth against his forehead. Enjolras allows himself to lean into the touch for a moment. Then he turns away. He looks up at his two friends and feels his heart ache with love for them. He wants to collapse into their embrace, curl up next to them, hide away and forget about everything.

But the nightmare is vivid in his mind and he needs to get out. He needs to be alone.

And so, without any words, he brushes past Combeferre and Courfeyrac and walks towards the front door where he shrugs on his jacket.

"I need some air," he says quietly, fighting against the tears when he sees Combeferre reach for his own coat. "I need to be alone for a while…"

Combeferre shakes his head and wraps his scarf around his neck. "I'm coming with you. You just threw up, you're not going anywhere by yourself."

Enjolras clenches his jaw. "I'm going out alone. I need to be alone, Combeferre. I won't go far, I'll be back soon. I need this. You told me to tell you what I need. I need this. Don't make it harder… please?"

Combeferre wants to protest, but Courfeyrac places a gentle hand on his shoulder, keeping him in place. Before Combeferre can say another word, the brown haired student nods and gives Enjolras a smile. "Don't go too far. Come back soon… We're here for you, my friend. Don't shut us out… Please?"

Enjolras nods once and turns. He can just hear Combeferre call his name before the door falls shut behind him.

TBC.

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_ (There's that… I tried to mingle Enjolras' nightmare with some information about the camps. The middle aged man is talking about the Death Marches that happened when the Allied __forces reached the camps in Poland and were close to liberation. A Kapo was a prisoner in a Nazi concentration camp__who was assigned by the SS__guards to supervise forced labor__or carry out administrative tasks in the camp.__Please let me know what you think of this chapter? Especially if you find it offensive or insensitive. It would mean a lot. Thank you!)__  
_


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